


tell your friends.

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Series: i look at you and there's no speech left in me [2]
Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multi, in which reggie waxes poetics about his boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26954302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: Once, when they were still alive and breathing and Luke had bought each of them a necklace, Reggie lay stretched out under the canopy of the garage ceiling, his head in Alex’ lap, his hands in Luke’s hair. Luke would strum his six string, Alex would tap a rhythm of something caught in his throat or maybe dying in his stomach onto Reggie’s chest, and they’d write music, like this, tangled with one another. Alex’ pink was smeared across Reggie’s cheeks, and stuck to his lips, Luke’s blue lay heavy in Reggie’s hands, and here, on this couch, his lungs didn’t feel quite as heavy, anymore.
Relationships: Alex/Luke Patterson/Reggie (Julie and The Phantoms), Alex/Willie (Julie and The Phantoms)
Series: i look at you and there's no speech left in me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015690
Comments: 18
Kudos: 209





	tell your friends.

Once, when they were still alive and breathing and Luke had bought each of them a necklace, Reggie lay stretched out under the canopy of the garage ceiling, his head in Alex’ lap, his hands in Luke’s hair. Luke would strum his six string, Alex would tap a rhythm of something caught in his throat or maybe dying in his stomach onto Reggie’s chest, and they’d write music, like this, tangled with one another. Alex’ pink was smeared across Reggie’s cheeks, and stuck to his lips, Luke’s blue lay heavy in Reggie’s hands, and here, on this couch, his lungs didn’t feel quite as heavy, anymore.

Reggie’s parents fight like a grease fire, like something got too hot once and burst into flames, and the only thing they knew how to do was throw water at it until the entire kitchen was burning and dripping with heat. When he was still small enough to fit into his mother’s hollowed embrace, and couldn’t yet understand the furrow of his father’s brows, they would sing together, something tender caught between both their throats – his mother’s guitar and his own child voice. His father would tap the table with heavy, worn hands, and the grease fire would be low, just under their skin.

Sometimes, when Reggie was still alive and warm to the touch, when all their kisses would be locked behind doors and tucked into this garage and the threefold smear of colour against his lips, when Alex worked until late at night and Reggie stocked groceries until his muscles ached, they would lie in that garage, behind that door, with their colours painted on each other’s skin as Luke sat hunched over his notebook. Reggie would pick at his banjo, or his bass or his skin until his fingers were raw and heavy with all that was contained in each of their songs, away from a stage or a demo or a crowd of screaming girls.

_We’re Sunset Curve. Tell your friends._

Reggie’s friends kiss him until he loses his breath. They hold him and they kiss him and they sing, the beat of something panicked laid across these drums, the laughter of something aching draped across these strings. Luke laughs and Alex dances, with his lips stretched into a smile, and Reggie can’t breathe.

25 years past, when Alex is full of a new crush and little Julie has jumped on their stage and into their lives, with her smile wide and her eyes big and dark, when Luke holds onto music like a man drowning, they lie, again, tangled with one another on this couch, with Luke’s music on their lips, Alex’ anxiety in a beat on Reggie’s chest. The world has moved on underneath them, in dark, heavy groans, and it has shifted; changed.

Reggie kisses Luke on stage in the middle of a guitar solo, no microphone or breath between them, leans into Alex’ space and his lips and the crush on his skin, and Willie in the audience whoops along with Julie, who spins about herself, laughing.


End file.
